


i'll be your slaughterhouse

by wastrelwoods



Series: jupeter d/s [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Blindfolds, Desk Sex, Edgeplay, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Past), Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, M/M, More D/s stuff, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Scars, dom!Nureyev, graphic violence warning is a bit of a mislabel, see notes - Freeform, sub!Juno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/wastrelwoods
Summary: "Juno--" Peter exhales, a little shaken by the enormity of the offer, torn between the urge to wipe the weight of every blemish from Juno's skin and the urge, more powerful than he'd expected, to carve his name into it. Another, stronger part of Peter balks at the thought of causing Juno pain, even upon request, balks at the thought ofdrawing a knife on his familyto do it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey i tagged this for graphic violence because 1) juno has some self-harm scars and i didn't wanna surprise anyone with that information and 2) edgeplay/knifeplay is super dangerous even if you're doing it right and it's also not for everyone. don't worry, no serious injuries here, but i think it merits a warning anyway

Juno, he's observed, is not good at asking for the things he wants. Or even admitting he wants them at all. Its simply one of his little stumbling blocks, though of course he possesses more than his fair share of good qualities besides. And it's not as if Peter can't be patient.

To a point. If he's honest--and he makes a point to be as often as circumstances allow--he's always been the restless type. But he can be patient. He can certainly try. 

It's just that sooner or later he gets tired of waiting for Juno to make up his mind. 

Peter watches him out of the corner of his eye, noting the tension in his shoulders, the subtle shifting of his feet. He's uncomfortable, but he hasn't told Peter to put down the weapon yet. Probably he knows there's only one way to get the necessary information out of Mr. Okoye, and it's resting at the glowing blue edge of his plasma knife. The self-employed types are always the first to sell out a client to save their own neck. Peter should know; it's practically a habit of his. 

He focuses his attention on the hacker again, and turns the blade over in his hand, an inch from his throat. "How did you get past the Triad security?" 

Okoye's lower lip trembles, and he caves almost immediately, and Peter assumes that will be the end of it. 

But the spring stays tightly coiled in Juno's demeanor, in the same way it did following the disastrous break-in job of a few weeks ago. He's distracted, irritable, stares at Peter when he thinks he can't see. 

Peter waits for him to speak up as long as he can, and when that fails, he takes the usual route and forces his hand. "There's something on your mind, Juno. I can hear the gears turning from here." 

He reaches across the desk for the bottle again, and pours himself another glass of something so bottom-shelf all Peter can discern about its nature is a color--brown. "Triad's going to be on our tails again soon. That trail you planted won't hold them back forever," he broods, between gulps. 

He's deflecting, the darling. "Not that," Peter corrects, reaching over to pluck the glass from his hand, and taking a sip. The...brown alcohol scorches as it goes down. The glass trembles a little in his hand. "It's something else. Something I did, I think. Unless I'm mistaken, you're upset." 

"I'm not," he disagrees, instantly, then hesitates, jaw clenching. "It's not...it's nothing. You didn't do anything to...upset me, or--"

It's a weight off Peter's shoulders, if he can believe it, and there's an intrinsically honest quality to Juno he's always admired. The man can't lie to save his life, not truly. He can act well enough to fool a stranger, perhaps, but there's truth always lingering just below the surface. Peter keeps his eyes fixed on Juno's face, waiting to see what's written there. 

He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing gently, and stares at the weave of the carpet, a hundred thousand seemingly random threads coming together to make a complex pattern of red swirls. Like a dust storm, he once described it. "Just had something on my mind, is all." 

Ah. He knows the feeling. Peter shifts, leaning over the desk and snaking an arm around Juno to pull him closer, back flush against his chest. "Would you like me to take it off your mind?" he lilts. 

Juno's heartbeat is steady and strong beneath his hand, and he sighs as he leans back. Peter's lips brush the skin behind his ear, and the frames of his glasses knock against the back of his head. He doesn't wear his own cologne, but for the moment traces of Peter's linger on him. They rest like that for a minute, the moment much less urgent than anticipated, relishing being close, being able to reach out and touch. Then Juno asks,

"Would you ever...hurt me?" 

Peter's brow wrinkles immediately, and he nearly pulls away. "Juno--?"

Juno's hand tightens around his arm, holding him in place while he continues, "If I asked you to do it, I mean. If I wanted you to." 

He sounds so earnest, voice breaking ever so subtly, clinging to Peter like he's afraid he'll turn and run. He doesn't want to make Juno feel afraid, either, so he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, clearing his mind before he asks, as calmly as he can manage, "And do you want me to hurt you?" 

"I--" Juno hesitates. "I want you. And I trust you. A lot." The words sound like they've been wrenched out of him, barely a whisper. 

"I know you do," Peter reassures. He slides his free hand down to Juno's hip, and presses a gentle kiss to the nape of his neck. He shudders gently, but some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. Peter presses his mouth to the same spot again, tasting his skin, then pulls back for a moment to speak. "I suppose it would depend," he answers, and scrapes his teeth gently over the junction of Juno's neck and shoulder. "On why you were asking me to do it." He knows something of the dark cloud that hangs over his dear detective, blinding him to the worth of his own life. He won't help Juno to punish himself for some imagined slight. 

"Yeah. Okay." Shallow breaths shift the weight pressed against Peter's chest. Juno's thighs tense against the wood of the desk, and he adjusts just enough to let Peter see him gesture to the thick scar that crosses the bridge of his nose. "See this?"

Peter follows his eyes with the pads of his fingers, brushing over the scar. In his mind's eye, he sees the faint valley the old wound carves into Juno's cheek, smoother and darker than the skin surrounding it. 

"I got it in a bar fight when I was twenty. Picked a fight I couldn't win." He reaches up to the side of his head, brushes aside the thick, dark hair to reveal another scar across one temple. "And this one was...uh, Triad, if I remember it right. Back when I took Cecil Kanagawa off their hands the first time." Peter moves to trace that, too, but Juno's already moving on, thumbing at a thin, white line just under his chin. "Car chase, back when I worked uptown. Nothing too glamorous, I promise. Ran into a streetlight, and he got away."

He gestures to the lopsided fold that covers the place where his right eye used to be, next, and Peter inhales sharply. "You already know the story behind this little beauty mark." 

He reaches down to unbutton his shirt, fingers fumbling in haste, and shows off an old laser burn just below his ribs, the nearly invisible set of gouges from the set of spiked knuckles he'd once taken for Peter in a fight, a small collection of thin, dark parallel lines just above one elbow. "Hit a rough patch," he explains, in a very small voice, and Peter can't help pressing another firm kiss to the side of his neck. "Long time ago. Thinking about covering that one up with some ink, actually." 

All these marks and more, Peter has seen a dozen times already. He keeps a mental map of Juno's body, all the old scars and all the spots that make him scream, too. He points to the buckling, star-shaped mark behind Juno's left shoulder as a distraction more than anything. "What about this?" 

Juno goes still, hesitating a second before he sighs, letting Peter probe at the scar though he looks like he wants to flinch away. "I, uh....don't remember," he lies.

A sad smile quirks up the ends of Peter's mouth. He covers the mark with his palm, then wraps his arms around Juno's waist again. "Point is," he continues, shaking off whatever devil was plaguing him, "I've got a lot of bad memories etched into my skin. Can't get rid of them. And I thought....if you're willing, you could leave me some good ones." 

"Juno--" Peter exhales, a little shaken by the enormity of the offer. His fingers flex against his hip. It's a lot to consider. Frankly, he's not sure he's at all qualified. There are a thousand thoughts flying around his head at a million miles an hour, and he's torn between the urge to wipe the weight of every blemish from Juno's skin and the urge, more powerful than he'd expected, to carve his name into it. Another, stronger part of Peter balks at the thought of causing Juno pain, even upon request, balks at the thought of _drawing a knife on his family_ to do it. 

He examines all these thoughts as they come, swiftly and concisely, then takes a deep breath and pushes them off to the side. "Give me some time to think it through." 

"You--Okay," Juno repeats, a little flat. 

Irked, Peter shifts to take Juno's face in his hands, looking him full in the eye. "That's not a 'no', Juno," he promises, in earnest. Juno drifts toward him like a comet caught in orbit, his lips parted ever so slightly, and Peter shifts all the papers to one side of the desk in order to maneuver Juno closer. "And I'm very grateful that you confided in me," he continues. While he has Juno's full attention, he takes the opportunity to reach out and touch the way he had meant to before Juno's confession. 

"What are y--oh!" 

The angle isn't perfect, Juno seated on the desk and half-sprawled across Nureyev's chest, the wood digging into Peter's thighs where he's leaning into it, that bottle of mysterious brown booze sitting open only a few inches away, liable to get knocked to the floor. But Peter still feels a rush of satisfaction when Juno gasps against his mouth and shudders. He's half-hard before Peter gets a hand around his cock, but quickly swells the rest of the way, his hands grasping at Peter's shirt as he groans.

Juno's not a verbal lover, but he's certainly not a quiet one. Peter swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, and he all but sobs, bucking his hips up into Peter's fist. "Oh, sweetheart," Peter praises, staring in rapt wonder at the beautiful, fragile goddess coming apart at his touch. A soft, wordless cry escapes Juno, and Peter sets a quicker pace, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "You're so good for me."

Juno goes limp and pliant in Peter's arms, his chest rising and falling rapidly in time with his ragged breaths. " _Shit,_ " he curses, between moans. His cock throbs in Peter's fingers. He's teetering on a knife's edge, and Peter intends to keep him there as long as he can. Make him feel good. 

His own hips hitch, grinding down against the edge of the desk, but Peter swallows a moan and ignores the heavy ache of his own hardness. If he loses control he can't focus on Juno. 

Dear, lovely Juno whose fingers are trembling against the fabric of Nureyev's shirt, eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging slack, panting against Peter's. Every movement of his fist draws another high, keening moan from his lips. His whipcord-muscle frame shakes like there's a wave breaking over him. So Peter slows, and then stops.

The effect is instantaneous. Juno thrusts helplessly into empty air, and turns his face into the crook of Peter's neck, whining. "No," he grunts, then, a little higher, "Please!"

The grin that splits Peter's face is something beyond his control. Juno is so bright, so beautiful, so perfect like this, offering all of himself up for Peter, begging him to take it. 

Peter withholds the satisfaction from him a moment longer, not to be cruel, but to be sure he's strung as taut as he can be without snapping. He wraps his fist around Juno's cock again, and he inhales so sharply that he nearly chokes, clinging to Peter like he's the lone star in a vast chasm of empty space. 

"Shh, it's alright, darling" he urges, pumping him the way he knows Juno likes it, fast and rough. "Let go."

And Juno does, throwing his head back as he comes, shuddering, over Peter's hand and his own belly. His moans grow desperate for an instant, and then taper softly away. 

It's a very near thing, but Peter manages not to come just watching him. He slides him back into his trousers and starts to lick the come off his fingers while Juno comes down gently from his high, staring up at Peter like he hung the moons in the sky. "Christ, Nureyev," he says, breathless, "You really know how to treat a lady." 

"Only the best for my favorite detective," he promises, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger. He offers an arm, which Juno takes, shifting off the desk and into the chair with a surprising modicum of grace. 

He watches Juno polish off the forgotten tumbler of brown liquor, shrugging back into his discarded shirt, and slowly allows his attention to turn back to the problem at hand.

Juno went to the trouble of asking, after all. The least Peter can do is consider his offer.

**Author's Note:**

> title from richard siken's poem _wishbone_


End file.
